


When a mountain meets a river

by woodworms_before_breakfast



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Episode: s03e12-13 The Coming of Arthur, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Loves Merlin (Merlin), F/M, Friendship/Love, I'm Bad At Stuff In General, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Lancelot is beautiful, Love Triangles, M/M, Not much plot, One Shot, Percival needed a backstory, Percival's biceps are a character by themselves, Why Did I Write This?, and not in a thirsty way, idk man but you're reading it, it better be good :), just kidding this is a chaotic mess and i know it :), so I came up with this headcanon?, so go ahead and tell me what you think :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodworms_before_breakfast/pseuds/woodworms_before_breakfast
Summary: “Well,” Percival said, sitting back on the bench, “I’m finding something, you’re proving something. What say you we go on with our noble quests together?”
Relationships: Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon, Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac, Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin), Lancelot & Percival (Merlin)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	When a mountain meets a river

**Author's Note:**

> Percival needed a backstory, so I wrote this. In the end, it didn't even tell us much that we didn't know already. So why did I write this? Only the Triple Goddess knows!

_This is really rather unfair_ , Percival thought as he looked up, dismayed, into the man’s inebriated sneer. One would think with muscles like his, no foolish tavern thug would try to incite a tavern brawl by provoking _him_. But something always gave away his soft, pacifist side — his eyes, perhaps. They always were too wide and bright for his liking.

“Come on,” the man rasped, his dagger still pointing rudely at Percival’s nose. “Gold. Haven’t got all day.”

Percival sighed and set his jug down. Leaving thugs nursing broken limbs and cowering in a pool of their own idiocy had been fun the first few times, but now he simply wished there was one tavern out there where he could drink peacefully and wallow in silence. _Oh, well_. He supposed Haldor would be another site of his infamous jaw dislocation antics. Time to knock the brains out of yet another brainless knob.

He’d barely begun flexing his biceps when a smooth, milky voice rang out behind the thug: “No, you really haven’t. Best be on your way, then.”

The thug stiffened and turned. As Percival laid eyes on his unneeded savior, his first thought was: _A knight of Camelot!_ But the man wore no gold-crested cape, his boots were ragged and unpolished, and his face, framed by lush chocolate locks, was flushed with what was likely a considerable amount of mead — Percival’s impression of nobility had not come from any of the man’s physical features. It was his air: his brown eyes glinted with surety and morality, his lips were pressed in a smile that was at once kindly heroic and dangerously threatening, his hand laid on the hilt of his sword (the blade of which was resting on the thug’s throat) with all the confidence of a knight.

Perhaps the thug saw what Percival saw. Or perhaps he did not see past the silver glint of the man’s sword. Whatever he saw, it knocked him into submission, and he scrambled to put distance between himself and the table that was now the center of the tavern’s attention. Percival returned his gaze to the stranger.

“Lancelot,” he said, half a grin lighting up his handsome face as he sheathed his sword and extended his other hand.

“Percival,” he answered, accepting the handshake. They sat down, and Lancelot helped himself to some of Percival’s jug, extracting a disgruntled snort from the barmaid who had hobbled over to take his order.

“So what are you doing in Haldor?”

“I’m…” Percival studied his grimy fingernails, wondering how to answer. He’d never been very talkative, letting his mountainous mass of muscles speak for itself instead. If he were being honest with himself, however, he’d been searching for a friend with whom he could share his troubles ever since the day his village had been ravaged. “Looking for some way to put these arms to use, if I’m being honest.” He grinned shyly and patted his forearm, prompting a smirk from Lancelot.

“Is that why you seem to be rather adverse to sleeves?” Lancelot circled his finger in mock appreciation. “To advertise them to all?”

Percival chuckled and pried the jug out of Lancelot’s fingers. “And you? Are you in Haldor to further your career as a jester?”

“I’m afraid that is not my chosen profession, no,” Lancelot laughed, reaching for the jug. Percival kept it out of his reach, eyebrows raised in question. Lancelot’s smile wavered slightly. “I have been… proving something to myself. Haldor seemed as good a place as any.” He winced, as though remembering an echo of a memory. “Well, I suppose not _any_. Some of my adventures have brought me to places that are rather —“ he lifted his gaze to Percival and smirked again “—undignified.”

“Well,” Percival said, sitting back on the bench, “I’m finding something, you’re proving something. What say you we go on with our noble quests together?”

Lancelot’s smile widened. “Of course. Provided you hand over that jug sometime before we both sprout grey hair.”

***

For the first time in his life, Percival found himself to be the more talkative of a pair. As they practiced their swordsmanship together on the fields each day, it was he who chattered incessantly between sessions. There was something about Lancelot’s smile, his gentle taunting, his not-so-subtle yielding once in a while in an effort to preserve scraps of Percival’s dignity. (For all his strength, Percival swung a sword with the same imprecise force that he used to crash a barrel down on someone’s head.) He found himself willing to share as much of his story with as much emotional sincerity as he could muster. It wasn’t until weeks later that he realized the flood of conversation had mostly been one-sided; Lancelot was tight-lipped in all but his smiles.

Thus, Percival embarked on a new quest: to persuade Lancelot to reciprocate his trust and confidence. Firing small, vague questions that poked softly through chinks in the other’s armor with a craftiness that neither his sword nor his fists would ever accomplish, Percival began to glean the history of his only friend.

It was a hero’s tale.

Among the many tales that Lancelot eventually constructed in bits and pieces, Percival mined one vital jewel: there was someone in Camelot who held Lancelot’s heart. Someone brave, beautiful, and unconditionally kind. A servant, Percival learned after a few more prodding interrogations. It took several more before he discovered her name: _Guinevere_.

Besides this Guinevere, the name that slid from Lancelot’s lips the most was _Merlin_. During Lancelot’s first stay in Camelot, Merlin had tried to (subtly) violate the Knight’s Code and turn Lancelot into a knight. The plan had backfired, but that was to be expected, Lancelot insisted, and no one was at fault. Apparently, Merlin was also a servant, also brave and equally kind. (At times, when Lancelot spoke with genuine fondness, Percival was unsure whether he was referring to Merlin or Guinevere.) They still wrote to one another, so when Percival joined Lancelot in the tavern one night and found him poring over a crumpled yellow letter, he thought nothing of it until Lancelot stood up abruptly.

“I need to leave,” he said. Percival’s spoon halted in midair as it brought soup to his mouth.

“What is it?”

“The citadel has been taken. The prince and a few others have gone into hiding. Merlin needs my help.” He folded up the letter and seemed to notice for the first time that Percival was staring at him, wide-eyed and deprived of soup. “I’ll return after I’ve helped them.”

Percival set his spoon down. “Why? There’ll be nothing for you here.” He savored the delightful moment as Lancelot’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement — he was always on the receiving end of jests, so this was a precious change. “I’m coming with you.”

Lancelot pressed his lips together in thought. He began to say something, but with a glance at Percival’s biceps and stubborn scowl, he thought better of it. He nodded and smiled gratefully.

***

Percival had always hated spiders. He’d stuck his hand inquisitively in a cobweb once when he was a child, and the terror of watching an arachnid approach his fingers was perhaps only paralleled by the trauma induced during the attack on his village. It wasn’t the threat of poison or harmless bites that frightened him. It was the _legs_. Why were they so long? What possible benefit did spiders derive from having such disgustingly out-of-proportion legs? (Probably survival in nature, his reason answered to the latter question. He chose to wave it aside.) With this handicap, he was never entirely comfortable in the forest.

Lancelot had elected to rest near a ravine, leaning against the tree as his hands fidgeted with Merlin’s letter. Percival collapsed on a boulder and listened to the sounds of the forest for a while: the birdsong, the breeze, the crickets, the trees. _Poetry_ , he thought.

Lost in dreamy silence, the two of them were startled by the sound of approaching yells and running footsteps below. Lancelot jumped to his feet, the letter fluttering to the grass, and squinted.

A moment later, his eyes widened. “It’s Merlin! They’re in trouble!” He unsheathed his sword and began to race off before he realized that Percival was not on his heels. Instead, the giant of a man was paralyzed on the boulder, eyes fixed on a crimson speck scuttling near his thighs.

Lancelot rolled his eyes. “A _spider_ , Percy? Come, they need us!”

Percival shuddered but didn’t budge from his position. Shouts pierced their ears from below. The spider inched closer… Lancelot huffed in impatience and began to leave without him… the spider inched closer… Percival held his breath and hoped it wouldn’t sense his presence… it inched closer…

He hadn’t meant to cause a rockfall. Lancelot came racing back when he heard the rumbling of crashing boulders. The spider had _jumped_. Percival had reacted on instinct, and his instinct had been to push the boulder, which in turn had pushed the rest of the previously unnoticed pile of boulders off the edge of the ravine. His eyes widened as the noise settled, and he joined Lancelot, who was already gazing down below them.

He’d expected to see bodies trapped beneath rock. At best, he’d braced himself for furious glares. He’d trained his eyes to search for a red neckerchief, by Lancelot’s account.

He did not expect to see Arthur Pendragon staring up at him in awe.

In hindsight, he should have. Lancelot had told him that Merlin was the Prince’s manservant and mentioned that the Prince was in hiding. If Percival had had more brain than he did, he would have put two and two together. But he was Percival, and his breath stole away from his chest when he peered over the ravine and saw the Crown Prince of Camelot looking up at him. A scan of the scene revealed that his rockfall had created a welcome barrier between the Prince and some unfriendly-looking soldiers.

Next to him, Lancelot stirred and came to his senses. “We need to hurry,” he called. The group below — there were at least half a dozen pairs of eyes staring up at them — murmured assent and began running up the side of the ravine.

Percival turned to his friend and whispered, “Please do not tell them it was a spider.”

Lancelot winked and dashed off to meet his friends.

***

The Prince of Camelot was approaching them. The Prince of Camelot stuck his sword in the ground before them. The _Prince of Camelot_ grinned at them and said, “I take it that rock fall wasn’t an accident.”

The irony of the statement was not lost on him, nor Lancelot either, he suspected. Percival’s eyes were glued to his feet, so he gasped lightly as he felt Lancelot clap him on the back.

“This is Percival. It was his strength that brought them down.”

He hoped his eyes displayed his thanks to Lancelot for sparing his dignity. After a beat, he dared to look up and found the Prince — of _Camelot_ — smiling affably at him. He stammered out a “Your Highness” and nearly fell over when the Prince shook his head and extended his hand.

“Arthur.”

Percival grinned. He shook the Prince’s hand — _the Prince of Camelot’s hand_ — and almost snorted when he saw Arthur’s brows wrinkle in surprise. His enormous arms were the first thing people noticed about him, yet during handshakes they were always shocked by his firm, crushing grip. “Arthur it is.”

Arthur ducked his head good-naturedly and turned back to Lancelot. “What were you doing here?”

“Ah— It was me. I sent for him.”

_Ah. Merlin._ The man that scampered over to them beamed with a warm yet exhausted cheeriness that sparkled from his ocean-blue eyes. His ruffled black hair flopped as he stopped at Arthur’s side, meeting Lancelot’s eyes with what could only be described as adoration. When Percival swiveled his head to look at his friend, he furrowed his brows as he realized that, the way Lancelot was gazing at Merlin, he was no longer sure if it was truly Guinevere who kept Lancelot’s heart in Camelot.

“Well, we owe you our lives,” Arthur said, breaking Percival’s inspective reverie. “Thank you.”

As he shook Arthur’s hand, Lancelot’s eyes flickered past the prince’s shoulder. Percival followed his gaze to a dark-haired woman, gasping for breath as she sat on the ground. _Guinevere_. Previous doubts of Lancelot’s heart were erased from Percival’s mind by the smile that the woman flashed in their direction.

“Come, Percival.” Lancelot laid a hand on Percival’s elbow and pulled gently. “Let’s join our friends.”

***

They had already been hiking for hours before Percival noticed the problem. He blamed Arthur — the prince was too kind, checking on someone every few minutes, asking Gaius if he was tired, joking around with a chestnut-haired man named Gwaine to lighten the mood. (The only person not afforded this otherwise universal kindness, it seemed, was Merlin. Even with him, though, it was only “hurry up, you dollop head” or “you don’t _own_ that word, _Mer_ lin”, never anything truly insulting.) In any case, it was no wonder that it took so long for Percival to notice the way the prince’s hand seemed to linger on Guinevere’s arm after helping her over a fallen tree, the way his eyes maintained a wistful contact with her when he offered her some water — the way she returned his gestures with clear, unrestrained love in her own eyes.

Percival began jerking his head toward Lancelot every time the two exchanged some small sign of affection. His friend seemed intent on ignoring these gestures, choosing resolutely, instead, to sustain conversation with Merlin, who also appeared to be privy to Lancelot’s heart… and to Arthur’s feelings. Percival observed Merlin’s darting gazes in Arthur and Guinevere’s direction as he babbled to Lancelot and the way he steered Lancelot’s focus toward anecdotes that left the both of them bending forward in laughter. _I’m going to like Merlin very much_ , he decided.

By the time they reached the cliffside, Percival was too caught up in watching Lancelot and Arthur to remark the dilapidated castle looming up in front of them. As Arthur turned to inform them that they were to make for the castle’s side entrance and find shelter for the night, Percival discerned that this was his only chance to speak privately with Lancelot before they were stuck with six other people in close quarters for what would inevitably be hours. He caught up to his friend just as they reached the castle doors and held him back with a hand on his arm. Merlin ceased his rambling and smiled at him before following the rest of the group into the castle. Lancelot looked up, confusion evident in his expression.

“I…” Percival cleared his throat. Lancelot raised a brow. “I want you to know, you are my only friend as of this moment. My allegiance lies with you. If you choose to help them retake Camelot, I will follow you, sword in hand, without a second thought. If your… _heart_ ”— realization smoothed Lancelot’s brows and pulled at the corners of his lips —“lies elsewhere than with the prince, then I will follow you there, as well.”

Lancelot smiled and didn’t answer for a moment. He lifted his chin with a firm nod, as if to reassure himself. “My allegiance lies with Arthur. He may be Prince of Camelot, but for all I have seen from him and his father, he may as well be King already. If you have done me the honor of offering me your loyalty, then it is him you should follow.”

Percival grinned. “His enemies are my enemies.”

He clapped his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, and they followed the others into the castle.


End file.
